


sleepless

by MiniInfinity



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, this is a word vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 20:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18506902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniInfinity/pseuds/MiniInfinity
Summary: Soonyoung tries to call the company's hotline during stressful times and realizes too late that he dialed the wrong number.





	sleepless

**Author's Note:**

> so epik high released an album and this fic was inspired by the song [Sleepless](https://open.spotify.com/track/6PuDnNxBJsxypNXqALqKgX?si=rcG6ce0wTFK4Wx0kqbHiJA). there isn't much to this, honestly. this was written on a whim when i was feeling down and this was probably more cathartic to me than it was to soonyoung lmao  
> with that being said, here are some **warnings:** soonyoung smokes, things get a little stressful, gross writing, i cry

Seoul respires a lonesome dream across his eyes, inhales the sky black and exhales off the whites of his heart. The city buzz drowns in his ears--from alarm clocks of car horns down below to zips of traffic congesting his entire periphery, from the wind flirting at his ears and coaxing him away to the scramble of arguments and curses that will bathe in post-dawn regret, lip-biting alibis and burning excuses. It's the lights that never end, even when the stars grab hold of the hours, even when his eyes follow down to the end of the road and it's still too bright where the Earth of the city curves. The less lonesome lights flare a few blocks of windows over the apartment buildings besides his own and never his own.

He could be sleeping. He should be sleeping.

He promised his mother that he'd call her soon, but the cigarette rings at his lungs, tapers orange off the balcony. He swings his legs between the rods, forehead nearly ghosting through the metal bars, and his eyes snipe at the occasional walkers passing under the heels of his bare feet and back out from the tips of his toes.

His lungs singe ice hot against the edges of winter and sometimes, he wonders if it's the cigarette smoke he's really breathing out or if the smoke is breathing him in. He turns to his side, tampers the flames orange, black, gray, and snowing down below.

His bones creak silent when he stands up, grabs onto the balcony railing to get a hold of himself or of anything. With his foot half-numb from the cold and still blood to his legs, he hobbles a limp back inside, slides the door shut behind him too harsh that the thump shoots a jolt into him. He locks the door, closes the curtains, ruffles his hair of the night.

He skims through his wallet at the kitchen counter, of currency and metal chips on black plastics. He skims through his wallet, stops at the thick card his boss once passed to him in secret.

Italics of purple and pink, _Slplss_  flourishes across the cardstock behind the _Do you have trouble sleeping?_  and _Do you feel down, depressed, hopeless? Are you lonely?_

Soonyoung shrugs, about to toss the card when the letters click louder at the last question.

_Are you always sleepless?_

He's not sure what's with the last sentence that strikes him to groaning at the momentary shock of light as he unlocks his phone, types the number on the card. It might be the fact that he doesn't know if anyone would ask if someone is sleepless. The word "sleepless" never crosses a conversation as often as down, depressed, hopeless, or lonely. It might just be the fact that he feels more sleepless right now than any other word on the card.

His thumbs fly across his phone a second time. Impatience loosens a knot at his throat and tightens it back taut when a message pops on his screen of the same questions on the card. He huffs, dials the number a third time, and he brings the phone up to his ear, expects the monotonous _Do you have trouble sleeping?_ , _Do you have nightmares?_  running circles at the borders of his mind, only to come around a second time and back again.

But it's a gentle "Hello?" that hollows into his ear.

He must have dialed the wrong number. His boss told him once that someone will ask for the company name right away, verify for his employee number, date of birth, anything that speaks of Kwon Soonyoung but hides the fact that Kwon Soonyoung is the name attached to these little things.

His thumb hovers over the red button when the person chances out a second gentle "Hello?"

He coughs out the taste of ash in his throat and the first curdles a second around his "I'm sorry, I must have called the wrong number."

"It's okay," the man's voice swings a tad higher than most men in his company, and he wonders if his voice is really as soft as this sounds. A pause settles between their lips and the receivers and just when he actually considers ending the call without an explanation, the man speaks up again. "It sounds like you're going through a rough time."

It's a single sentence that breaks something in him; the first person who brings up about him that isn't about the company, his sister, targeted towards himself, is from a mere stranger. A mere stranger, without a name or a face, a sense of familiarity or a shared memory of passing the same place, picks it up better than anyone else he's been around.

"Yeah, it's been rough," crumbles out his lips. But he really should hang up; he shouldn't keep this stranger's time hostage, not when it's three in the morning and no one else he knows would be awake at this time. "I should let you go. Sorry for calling you."

"No, it's okay," he dismisses. "If you want to talk, I'll listen."

If any other person he can connect a name with a face to offered an ear to listen to his troubles, he would brush it off. But perhaps it's the fact that he can't connect a name or a face to this voice. Perhaps it's the chance that he won't ever need to after this call. Perhaps he might just be desperate to talk to someone he's unsure of whether or not he'll curl up against the same spiel of "You shouldn't be feeling this way," "There are other people in worse situations," "Everything will be okay in the end."

But he has nothing to lose. He checks the moon's hour once more, considers again that he would usually decline any other person who offers him that time, patience wasted by listening to him.

"I can't sleep, either," the man shoots his doubts futile.

He brings a hand over his mouth, huffs through the web of his fingertips. Maybe it's the man's voice, the realization that he never talked to anyone this late into the night. But he hikes up the Soonyoung who would forget about this offer and throws him out the balcony.

"Are you really up for this?" he tests out, opens up a way for the person at the other side to take their words back and run.

"Of course," the man's voice pipes up and it shines too bright for such an hour. "I'm the one who offered."

Soonyoung's knees threaten to buckle under him. If he counts the days passed since he last talked to anyone like this, the number wanes a lot closer to infinity. He inhales, breath trembling as much as his lips--from the ringlets of cigarette still swarming his lungs and tongue, the unease of words losing their paths from his mind to his brain, he's not sure. But he knows the floor is starting to lose its definite curves under dim lights, a sting bathes into the backs of his eyelids, and he needs to sit down.

But he doesn't move far from the counter when rounding the corner for the seat at the dining table seems too much. His legs give way for the spot at the counter, punching all the strength in his legs to slide down until his bottom hits the cold bottom of kitchen tiles, and he leans back against the counter wall. With everything down below, he notes pieces of paper under the fridge and he wonders if he'll ever reach back down to pick them up, dust the shreds off, read from the past and wish his present and future can still smile at those loose slips of paper.

Soonyoung sighs and all his words stumble into a mesh of syllables, almost undecipherable when his lungs constrict with his throat and he chokes, lips pouring out without a single halt that his sister is filing for a divorce and his parents struggle to watch over her son. Being there for his nephew, hauling his stroller to his car to take him out of the apartment so his sister and his parents can nurse a breather, soothing down a lullaby so sleep can find him where nothing bad in the world can and hoping his small ears won't pick up the big cracks of his voice, of his sister's voice the first thing in the morning.

He touches upon abandoning his dreams and settling for one his parents paved for him. But if he wants to chase after that dream, to search out in the recesses of his heart for that desire from years ago, he would have to give into a round two at school and spend another who-knows-how-many years in there.

It never helps that he's standing on this ground at twenty-five, but everyone tells him that he should have kicked the ground running long before. That he " _should_  have had his life together a long time ago." But why does it feel like he broke it all apart?

"You should do what you really want to do," the man's voice lowers. "Sometimes, you have to take a step back to move forward, you know?"

The words curdle a bit cheesy and rotten sentimental, twist his face into a punch, but he shouldn't brush it off so easily. This mere stranger offers him some advice, kind words, things his ears have yet to encounter in the past few months.

The words pause into the mute when Soonyoung thinks his words run dry. He agrees that life might be that way sometimes, but he never thought his life would have to reach that point. He runs a hand over his face in a vain excuse to wipe his tears off. When no other words want to meet him at this second, he offers to listen to the man talk about his problems. "It's only fair that I return the offer."

After Soonyoung mirrors the man's first few words, of "Are you sure?" and "Of course," the man sighs, exhaustion crashing into his voice already. The man confesses that he's taking that step back, that he thought he would be fine working in the hospital. He loves kids, he really does. "I'm trying to do pediatrics but as much as I love kids, I don't think this is what I really meant. I love singing and I love kids, so I think I'd do better if I put the two together."

Soonyoung pieces those thoughts together and asks if it really means he'll have to go back to school to take that step back. The man admits that it might mean so, and he wouldn't mind it at all.

Soonyoung wishes he had a mind like that.

Before dawn breaks the two, he yawns into his fist and the man asks a quiet, barely shy, "Are you feeling sleepy now?"

"Yeah, I am." Soonyoung drops his chin to his chest, rubs at his eyes. "You should get some sleep, too."

"Can I save your number?" Soonyoung tries to blink the question away, at the stranger wanting to talk to him _again_  after he douses him in his miseries. But he figures he still has nothing to lose. He offers his name, a simple "Soonyoung," and he would actually like to save the stranger's number, too.

He bids a goodnight or a good morning, whichever one settles better at each other's palates, and he saves the name "Seokmin."

\----

It takes a lot to snap the calm out of Soonyoung, to rip the wiring at his brows and seethe his words without even reaching close to the touch. This time, his eyes fall on an overdue rent slip hidden between the cartoon books, work papers, receipts for diapers and infant formula. His mind flips through all the reasons why his family could be holding back from telling him about this. Do they not trust him to help them out more than with his nephew? Do they think he can't afford to help his own sister? Why do the people he love the most hide all of these from him?

His sister and his parents making ends meet might be more of a reality than a nightmare.

His voice raises without meaning to when he pulls his wallet out from his pocket, throws it on down on the table, missing his nephew's spoon by a couple centimeters. His shoulders wear out thin and the world drops more weight on his back. "I can help pay for rent. I can make sure you don't have to worry so much. Why aren't you telling me all of this?" scathes out his throat without a thought.

He watches his sister's eyes swim to the brim. "You do so much for him already, just letting him go out with you while I'm working," trembles from her eyes more than her own lips.

"I can do more, Soonhee," silences the apartment, almost echoes off the walls. "I can do so much for you and Seojoon; why won't you let me?"

Her lips waver for an answer when they turn their heads towards a squeal that overflows into a cry, Seojoon's wails filling up the walls and his lungs, and Soonyoung wants to run away and he wants to _breathe_.

But he knows he fucked up. Soonhee points an uncertain finger at the door, a whisper of "Leave" parting no room for any idea for rebuttals or any time for apologies. Her eyes narrow at the scowl, tears bathing her cheeks pink and raw, and he leaves her apartment, doesn't bother picking his wallet up from the table.

 

 

Seoul is crying for him. Or perhaps Seoul is crying with him.

He drags the back of his wrist over his eyes, raindrops swallowing his teardrops whole. He chokes back a sob when he crosses the sidewalk at the wrong second, stumbles a step back when a car honks at him just when wheels crush the driveway.

Invisible hands clamp down at his shoulders when he throws his car door open and he slips inside, teeth clattering from the rain and the cold winter air offering a warmer hand for him to hold. He wants to drive away, but his fingers lock at his lap, his lungs need to catch up, and his clothes cling onto his skin more than his hair pressing damp over his forehead.

He wishes it's the rain smearing his entire countenance wet and tired.

 

 

His words venture nowhere near the topics of Soonhee, Seojoon, or his parent when his apprehensions push him to call Seokmin. Not even the tips of his words dip into discovering all he did today. His words drift more into running late to work in the closer days of the calendar because of the weather, of clocking in a few minutes after his scheduled start of the shift without his boss scolding him.

It earns something-somethings of what Seokmin caught on the radio this morning, memory piques between his road to work and home, of "Let your life take a minute, but don't let a minute take your life." He catches Seokmin sigh, mumble about how easy it is to shove the rules and purposes of speed limits and dangers of the weather when he races against the second hand to work. "But please drive safely, Soonyoung."

When was the last time anyone told him to drive safely?

He can't count the months with his two hands, but at least he can lift just one hand up for the years.

The short phrase passed every day he grabbed his keys and his parents kissed his cheek goodbye or waved at him from the windows. He wonders how long it's been since his parents broke that streak, if they really have any intentions on starting it up again.

Seokmin stops him short from answering himself with a, "Are you still there, Soonyoung?"

Soonyoung parts his lips, drags the heaviest sigh out his lungs. "Yeah, I'm still here. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," soft into his ears, and Soonyoung wishes he can listen to those words right in front of him. He wonders if Seokmin's hands are exactly like his voice.

Soonyoung shuts himself up, though, because even if he picked up his phone to talk about his day, his heart trembles at a word out of his day. He wants to listen to Seokmin talk, anyway, to have him around like this, even if he doesn't need to speak to get something out.

At the faint memory of Seokmin and singing, his lips risk between the wobble of his voice, the pressure of keeping his breaths from punching out his lungs and keeping the syllables understandable, "Can you sing for me?"

He almost shoves the request back down his throat when he catches a tiny sound and maybe he wasn't supposed to hear it. But after a clearing cough, the softest sound soothes his heart lighter, eases some of the drag at his shoulders closer to the ground and brings them higher up the bed and towards his pillows.

The voice can get lost in the wind if he doesn't hear it close enough, but he holds onto he wispy breaths in between each note, smooth and barely-there inhales after each line as if Seokmin breathes his own heavy breaths for him. He pokes the blurs at his eyes, stings at his fingertips and paints the skin off the weight and with certainty that even if the world clutches onto his heart and threatens to crush it at any second, Seokmin's voice is just what he needed right now and he's grateful he managed to hear it.

The song rips pieces of Soonyoung's life into these lines, adds words he wished he could hear more often. Having done a good job today, the awful feeling of staying in place while everyone else around him moves forward. "I'm here," and the song coursing at his lungs when he takes a deep breath as Seokmin sings those exact words.

Even at the end of the song, when Seokmin asks him if his singing is okay, a word ceases to kindle between their breaths.

He wishes the hand at his throat lets go for a second; not to breathe, but to let him cry.

But it doesn't take long for the call to drop into sleeping ears. He listens to languid breaths, fragments of a snore caught behind Seokmin's lips. He doesn't know what got him this time, the probing of his fingertips at his eyes once more. This time, his voice opens up and his throat shudders out a bare murmur of a cry through his lips. But it's not because he lost a listening ear tonight. It's because Seokmin followed the moon and stars out for him, even when his eyes might have been begging, this entire time, to stop the search and rest.

It's a definite that his "Thank you, Seokmin" might have lost its path into his ears, melded into the waves and lapped up at the border between dreams and reality. So he texts him a second _Thank you, Seokmin_ , even drops a _Your voice is very lovely_.

\----

The following day grabs him by the neck, vice grip slamming him against the wall of his front door. He dreads stepping out of his apartment to head to work, dreads the possibility of seeing his sister or never seeing her again. With his wallet abandoned at her apartment, he digs for the spare key card in his car, curses when the spare might reside somewhere at his home, instead.

And his break comprises of the itch for a cigarette or even the curve of a lighter, fingertips skittering up on the wheel, at his lap, palm blanketing the gear shift and ready to go when he has nowhere to go, when he sits in his car but resorts to reclining the backseat and shutting his eyes for the forty-five minutes he has to himself. Forty-five minutes alone is too much time at his hands, pricks at his nails and opens up to embedding every worry about his sister, his nephew, his parents, and back to his sister, his nephew, and his parents that his mind can conjure up.

But even when he dreads leaving his car and returning to his cubicle, its walls and the ticking clock accompany him long after the doors beeping open and closed dwindled down to him and a handful of other colleagues questioning who will be the last one left. He peeks over the walls, crests of heavy shoulders settling at very few spaces before him.

Would his sister even want to talk _about_  him? Can his sister talk to him at all?

 

 

At the end of the day, he palms his laps as he types his sister's name on his phone, sending the drops of sweat from his fingertips to his pants, instead of aiming towards ruining his phone. He calls his sister first, heart thumping louder at his ears than the trill of the call. He coughs out a vain "Hello?" to voicemail. He glances at the time when he hangs up, figures her work clock busies her at this hour.

He calls her apartment, instead, and his lungs singe at his first deep inhale when he hears his mother's voice. Before he can even start his apology for yesterday, everything drips like acid into his periphery and he shuts his eyes, shuts his mouth, clamps a hand over his lips, and everything burns again when his lungs burn even more at forcing to keep the cry inside. It's a whimper at the phone that he regrets even allowing a peek out, but it's the tender words of his mother that coaxes it out and tells him that he doesn't have to hold it in any longer.

"Soonhee feels bad about yesterday, too," his mother's voice fixes a blanket over his shoulders. "How about you come over tomorrow for dinner?"

"I-" he gasps, prays that his sister will be okay with this, "Please?"

\----

He groans against the morning scathing his vision before he even peels his eyes open, but the jump at his heart and the kick at his brain to call his sister shoves the entire complaint back down. He calls his sister the first thing in the morning because she will be awake and she will be home, starting her day off with a meal for her son or helping their parents prepare one right now.

But his throat closes up on him, breaks at his words of "Mom said she wanted me to come over tonight."

"Can you?" she whispers into a pause. It clicks, then, that she's saying yes, she _wants_  him to come over. "I think Seojoon misses you, too."

The thought of his nephew crawling on the playmat and reaching up to him sends another tear clinging to his jaw. He wipes the tears off, promises that he will drop by after work, promises that they can talk about this.

 

 

His fingers scrape at his legs to calm his nerves down, to smear the sweat off when his hands don't need to rest on the keyboard. His heart surges for an escape out his chest and even when he sifts through his paper, sifts through the mental image of last bits of cigarettes at the rooftop, he can't help but prop his head at the steering wheel during his forty-five minutes and begs his lungs to breathe.

He declines the proffered cigarette through his window when a colleague taps on the glass of his car and tilts the box out towards him. It will be as if they never lit the zippo in the first place, not when the colors blend into the clouds and the rain follows them down. But he declines it this time around with the promise that for today, he won't pick one up.

 

 

Would his sister fume harsh at him?

He wonders that as he sits in his car, key idle at the passenger's seat. He believes it's likely; he yelled at her in the midst of settling a divorce, taking care of her son without her husband, her son's father around, pressed coins into her palms to pay for rent. He contributed absolutely nothing to alleviate this, yet he _still_  conjured up the audacity to yell at her.

The engine murmurs under him and even when the ticker reaches halfway, he robs another moment to prick the tears at his eyes, silently pray that dinner will go well and that he can stay long enough for dinner at all.

But even then, the car ride to her apartment stretches the clock longer than it should. Buildings pass by him at a snail's race, and someone even honks a horn at him, banks to the next lane, and he barely follows the car passing in front of him before it disappears from his sight. He brushes it off, though, in favor of waiting for the elderly woman to cross the entire street.

He pulls up to her apartment complex, but his feet plant onto the gas and the engine runs on its own. He itches for a cigarette, to break the promise just this once, like almost any other day.

Perhaps Soonyoung is the worst uncle.

 

 

He stretches the clock even longer when he decides to take the stairs up tonight, instead of the elevator. But with a couple of floors left to cross over, he's sure his legs are screaming to give up from seeing his sister more than the ache at his bones. So he stops at the closest step, palms at his knees, and eases himself against the digging edges at his spine. He swallows hard at the thoughts of what his sister would say, of what his parents will do, of what would happen if Seojoon tries to reach out for him but Soonyoung has to go, he can't stay for long, because his family can't even speak a word to him.

He stands up a second time, works his way up the stairs until he reaches her floor. But he doesn't walk up to her door, resides to walking up and down the hallway, teetering between going up one floor or back down another. He might run away faster than the beats of his heart if he does walk anywhere close to her door. The pressure curdles into the pit of his chest and threatens his lungs to surrender to the weight. He's not sure if he can even save a breath to run away.

The knock at his sister's door drones mute as he reaches up, drops his fist a second and a third time. He smudges the tears off, but he lets them run. The tears run on his own and the thoughts of running away run away from him. From across the doorway, he catches his sister's eyes for a split second, pink and puffed around wet streaks. He closes his eyes for a second before the air crushes out his lungs.

It's a hug he never knew he needed until now, squeezing the bad air out of his system and he breathes her in, rocks her back and forth. His lips refuse to stop against the whispers of apologies after apologies into her ear--for yelling at her, for not understanding her struggles, for not helping as much as he could be, for letting the man abandon her like this, for leaving their parents to ache their knees in helping her son. Each word trembles to reach the distance between his lips to the strands of her hair at his nose to the shell of her ear.

"It's okay," she mutters against his shoulder, frays each word into a sniff, "you're okay."

The four words sends his arms around her shoulders even tighter, to hold her like this much longer.

They settle at the couch and he apologizes again for lashing out, admitting that he felt as if no one wanted to tell him anything and he drifted further and further away from everyone. But even then, he had no right to yell at her and the guilt stabs him a little numb and choking at his words when he reminds himself of the bite at his words. He mentions wanting to help, to start paying for something--whether it's food, monthly rent, lawyers, anything that will ease them into less of a worry.

The night dwindles past the dinner table, past the moon watching over them. The night guards his nephew at his lap, playful fingertips digging every giggle from the bottom of everyone's heart and resurfacing the better parts of their souls.

But he knows life won't pave a smoother path for any of them right away; there's so much more he needs to work on. But for now, even this sliver of smiles and giggles is enough for him to, at least, cling onto his smile for the rest of the night. His eyes latch onto the white poking out Seojoon's gums and the bottom of his vision blurs as he tilts his nephew's chin for a better view at his first tooth breaching through.

His sister must have caught onto something, though. The drops on her son's shirt that aren't from his drool or the pinks at Soonyoung's eyes. She picks her son up from his lap and says she will run a bath for him, for Soonyoung to take his time.

And Soonyoung steals this chance to excuse himself and step outside. When the front door shuts behind him and he scans both sides of the hallway, for any neighbors wandering at his later hour, his legs give in for the support of the wall and he slides down, down, down, until his legs stretch out into the middle of the hallway and he finally allows a tear to fall through.

He shouldn't cry, is what he almost tells himself. He doesn't carry as much of a life load as his sister or his parents, meanders life about his job and nothing else after that. But his heart assures him, between the slowing beats and the loosening of his grip over his shirt, that it's okay to cry and this is just the start.

 

 

His apartment brims fuller than when he last left it. He arranges containers of food his mother prepared for him the night before, stacks a bag of bread his father bought from the bakery up his sister's street. Once he showers the day off, he leans onto the kitchen counter, flips through pictures of his nephew scattered across the granite, an extra set of prints that Soonhee furnished for him not long before that one night. He props at his desk a picture of Seojoon crawling, secured by a mere slip of tape. He digs his finger into his wallet as he tries to preserve one of his sister, parents, and nephew in the clear sleeve before any of his cards. He carves a picture of Seojoon smiling up at him into the cracks of his heart.

He hopes he isn't posing a bother to Seokmin for calling earlier than all their previous nights. His moon lifts a bit brighter this time, but he knows there's still a long way to go with all of this. Even if Seokmin was there for a short amount of his troubles, between the tears and he might not even be there to see how life will lay everything out for him, he whispers his "Thank you" to Seokmin for being there with him and for him, despite never physically being there around him.

It's a little far-reaching for now, but he wishes he can meet Seokmin and tell him, in the flesh, that he's thankful for all the days he listened, for lending an ear to him when he never expected it.

He throws the idea in the air, though, a fit of nervous chuckle trailing just so Seokmin grabs the hint that he's not entirely joking but if Seokmin isn't up with the idea of meeting, his heart won't sulk at all.

His night bathes in white light, in scrolling through his laptop and trading the smallest of giggles over the receivers, when Seokmin suggests one cafe or that restaurant, that the two-hour drive can be a lot for the both of them, but they can still meet halfway in Seoul.

Seokmin treads another bout of nervous chuckle, admits that he's nervous to meet Soonyoung.

"Why are you nervous?"

"I don't know, either," he hears Seokmin's smile.

In between sounding out eccentric names of cafes and shops, Soonyoung offers the simple question of how Seokmin's day fared for him. And Seokmin delves into starting his day off with a sudden urge to visit the first hospital he worked at, holding newborns and lulling them to sleep, and "If I could, I would take you there with me."

Soonyoung smiles, says he would love that.

"Are you okay now, though?" passes with a tinge of worry. "I mean, you didn't call yesterday, and I got worried."

He thumbs the tear off his eye, knows it won't be like this all the time, but he's grateful for now. "I'm a little better now."

\----

His car lurches to a stop, but his nervous knee keeps it from staying still. He now regrets ever asking Seokmin why he was nervous to meet him when each nerve in his body decided that this is the perfect time to spike. The bouquet of flowers and a palm-sized music box rocks at the passenger's seat and if his nerves decided to jump out and cut into autopilot, he might veer the car into a bad turn and destroy the petals and wood on the spot.

The cafe they agreed to meet at resides in a calmer part of the city in comparison to the bustle of cars and pedestrians he huffed at on his way there. He parks in the front, turns his car off, and his mind tells him to go inside the cafe, but the comforts of his space tells him to stay inside, check once, twice, three times that the address on his phone mirrors the address on the glass window of the shop.

He then wonders if he dressed too much for meeting someone for the first time; his navy blue button-up covers him well enough from occasional winds and the black slacks narrow down to his ankles. The coat in his car is ready for when the junction of winter and spring leans more into winter than spring.

He wonders if Seokmin dressed the same way.

He settles at the bench in front of the cafe, nervous fingers yearning to start plucking petals one by one or to keep turning the knob of the music box until the song dims down mute and the tune breaks down.

Seokmin might be in the cafe right now and he doesn't know. He really can't pick out which one is Seokmin, though, because pictures never traded between them.

But what is he going to say to Seokmin? What does he want his first words to be?

He kicks his feet at the bench and his heartbeat claws at his throat. A simple "Thank you for everything, Seokmin," trickles so little and bundles up each one of his other thank you's at the end of the past few nights into nothing. "Thank you for listening to me" also knocks weak at his ears. He doesn't know and he should have thought about this before, but he thinks about when he proposed the idea of meeting up and how they scrolled through what to do together in Seoul while they're here, rather than wondering what to _say_  to each other once they meet.

He promises himself not to pick a cigarette today, not the day he meets Seokmin. His tongue laps over his lips in a nervous fret and his knee begins its trance of bouncing again. The bouquet at his hand might survive better by his side when a ring of petals rain down around his feet, about to wisp into the wind.

But maybe he should go inside and find Seokmin there.

He stands up, inhales deeply, picks the flowers and the music box in his hands, but his feet refuses to go anywhere closer to the door.

What if Seokmin didn't come?

What if Seokmin agreed to meeting up but ditched the idea to prove that he shouldn't talk to strangers, that he shouldn't open up to strangers? What if Seokmin landed into an accident on the way here and it's all his fault? What if Seokmin-

"Soonyoung?" breaks his thoughts, new at his ears but familiar at his heart without the distance shuffling against the receiver. His eyes trap themselves in the four corners around his feet, and he catches his name a second time. "Oh, I'm sor-"

And he looks up, doesn't even want to know what Seokmin is wearing and if his outfit fancies the same way as his. Seokmin's smile attempts to put the pieces of his heart back together even for a little while before they're sliding off again and they're back to where they started. But even that fleeting moment where he thinks his heart is put together, it means so much more to Soonyoung.

His eyes map out the mole at his cheek, the nervous chuckle reflecting the one he heard just nights ago through the phone that sends Seokmin's eyes mirroring the glints of stars and the shapes of moons. For a second, Soonyoung thinks there's a tear somewhere.

He would hate to be the reason for the falter at Seokmin's eyes and his brain kicks at him to do something to ward them away. He holds a hand out for Seokmin to shake, to do something people would do when they meet someone for the first time.

He hates that his first words to Seokmin are "Hi, my name is Soonyoung," but he thinks it's all worth it when Seokmin laughs over the curves of tears around his lips, bringing the corner of his wrist to his eyes to wipe the last drops off.

Seokmin's hand bathes his palm in warmth, bleeds an "It will be okay" in everything of his being. Soonyoung starts thumbing the tears off his eyes, but he's tugged forward and he listens to Seokmin's heart beat against his ear, right at his neck. His arms wind around his shoulders tight and Soonyoung hesitates to reach up, wrap his arms around Seokmin's back. The tip of his nose warms up with the small touch of Seokmin's skin there.

"My name is Seokmin," over the curve of his ear, uncertain of a steady breath, "but you already know that."

When they part, words lock in Soonyoung's throat but perhaps, they don't need words right now. He catches the small bag in Sekomin's hand, how shy he seems when he grips onto the handle with bare fingertips of his two hands.

He smiles, leans into the palm of Seokmin's hand on his cheek when he reaches up to wipe the tear off Soonyoung's eye before his own.

**Author's Note:**

> i had doubts of posting this because i didn't plan much to it and it felt like it was kind of lacking compared to other things i wrote. but being a little hopeful for them in here was more believable than being so for myself, so i put this out there.  
> if you want to yell at me, i'm still over at [ tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com/), [twitter,](https://twitter.com/leescokmin) and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity)


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